and if you have a minute why don't we go (somewhere only we know)
by atlasky
Summary: "Are you going to shoot me again?" "Depends," he says. "Do I need to?" She laughs, only half fake, and it feels like freefalling. He curls his right hand into a fist, just to feel nails digging into his palm. Her laughter almost sends a shiver down his spine. He uselessly hopes she doesn't notice.


**Author's note:** Right – I'm sorry because once again this has 'memory' as its theme but I'm really a sucker for it so. Um. Sorry. For deadlyromanova, congratulations for the end of your exams! And as always, this sounded way better in my head so I'm sorry again for that. Here's the angst you asked for. Enjoy!

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 **and if you have a minute why don't we go (talk about it somewhere only we know?)**

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The first time they see each other again, it is exactly three days after he had knocked on Steve's front door. There is a loaded gun on the table between them. He wouldn't let Wilson and Steve convince him to see her without it. He wouldn't let them convince him to spend five seconds without it. Not yet. For her part, there's a knife strapped to her boot that he graciously doesn't point out. He thinks she's supposed to inspect him – or whatever it is that she is supposed to be doing, before they can tell the whole world that he's there. Yet, she's not—

He doesn't finish the thought.

"Are you going to shoot me again?"

"Depends," he says. "Do I need to?"

She laughs, only half fake, and it feels like freefalling. He curls his right hand into a fist, just to feel nails digging into his palm. Her laughter almost sends a shiver down his spine. He uselessly hopes she doesn't notice.

"Very funny," she says. "Though I think our mutual friend wouldn't appreciate it."

"He's not," he starts. Pauses. He's not his friend. The Winter Soldier doesn't have a friend. But he's not the Winter Soldier, not anymore. He's not James Buchanan Barnes either. He's a little bit of both, a little in between, but there's no good in saying it out loud. Some part of him right now is Bucky Barnes who wants nothing than to yell at Steve for letting him stay when there's always the risk that he can kill him in his sleep, and the other half of him is just the empty remains of the soldier. Purposeless.

She quirks an eyebrow. "He's not what?"

He shrugs.

"You're his friend," she says, and it's her reading the lines of his shoulders. "Or I wouldn't be here otherwise." At this—

At this, he—

He clenches his fist a little bit tighter, perhaps.

"Good," he says. Lies through his teeth like swallowing poison. "Wouldn't want you here anyway."

"Oh," she smiles, thinly but impassive. "I can't imagine otherwise."

.

She gives him a pass—to his complete surprise, a green card, a stamp of her approval, and the Avengers welcome him to their ever growing circle. He doesn't care, really. He doesn't. But they're Steve's friends, and he is trying to become one (again), so he tolerates them.

But tolerating Wilson and his taste of music, Thor with his formal speech, Stark with his flair to the dramatics, Banner with his tendency to ramble on about science things Bucky doesn't care about, and Barton with the disasters that seem to follow him everywhere, means he also has to tolerate _her_.

Surprise, surprise, she's one of Steve's closest friends.

She's everywhere and it bothers him, because he is still trying to regain his footing and she does nothing but distract him. It starts to feel like she's doing it on purpose, being everywhere all the time. _Red bitten lips, shining green eyes, and whispers in the middle of the night_ —

"Bucky?"

"Yeah?"

"What's with you and Natasha?" Steve asks, hovering by the kitchen counter when it's Bucky's turn to do the dishes. (He has to start small, Sam says - _one resemblance of normalcy to another_ ).

"What do you mean?" He says, and he convinces himself that he sounds normal to his ears. Apparently Steve doesn't think so because Bucky can see him frowning from the corner of his eyes, but it's foolish of him in the first place, to try and fool Steve. Even with his memories half jumbled he still knows how stupid it is.

"I don't know," Steve says. "You seem on edge whenever she's around. Well, more than usual. I know there are some bad history and bullet wounds between the two of you, and if it's too much I'm sure we can arrange something for now," he gives Bucky a reassuring smile, but his eyes are worried. Well look at that, Steve can't fool him either. "You're already making so much progress with the others; you don't have to strain yourself."

'Bad history' is one way to put it, he supposes. He says nothing. He doesn't want to tell Steve that –

Finally Steve says, "I'm going to get some groceries, do you need anything?"

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He had spent two whole years alone, lost in his own head, crumbling under the weight of memories that returned and memories that didn't, before he even dared to show himself in front of Steve.

During that time, he existed but didn't, a mere shadow torn between the past and the present. He remembered the heat of summer, pulling the trigger of a gun, golden hair and amused blue eyes that are too noble for his own good, _painpainpain_ , and he remembered—

He remembered enough to know that she had loved him, once upon a time.

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He is not surprised when she is curled on Steve's sofa, a few days later, with two cans of beers on the table and a random movie he's not familiar with playing on the tv. Steve's not supposed to be home for a few more days, so it's obvious she's there to see him. He says it out loud anyway. "Steve's not here."

"I know Barnes," she says, not even lifting her gaze from the screen. He is fully aware that she can still see him from the glass case besides it. "I'm not dubbed the world's greatest assassin for nothing."

"I thought that was my title," Bucky mutters drily, already on the edge. This is the first time he has been alone with her, since that time when she supposedly _debriefed_ him.

"That's debateable," she says. "I can do it in heels."

"I'm sorry Hydra has no fashion sense," he replies, almost automatic, the words coming from a corner of his brain that was probably labeled Bucky Barnes, once upon a time. "I would have rocked your red heels."

This time, she looks up in surprise. There is something in her eyes, a glimpse of something that he recognizes, but it disappears before he can fully decipher what it is. It makes his jaw clench. "You probably wouldn't believe this," she says after a while. "But Rogers is really important to me. And you're important to him. We should probably call a truce, or something, because worrying we might kill each other will probably give him hernia, sooner or later."

"What," he says, voice rougher and more incredulous than he meant to. "You want to be best friends forever and trade friendship bracelets?"

"Nah," she shrugs. "That's Wilson and Rogers. You and I can trade bullets and knives in our spare time."

He should—

He should probably go, because this one right here is a bad idea, but he has never been known for his good ideas, not even when he's a kid in Brooklyn, not even when he's following Steve waltzing through the enemy line in the war, bullets flying mere inches from his head.

 _For Steve_ , he reasons ( _lies_ ). He sits down and grabs the unopened can of beer. They watch the rest of the movie in silence, before she stands up and leaves without so much of a backward glance. He stays there, sitting on the sofa with an empty can of beer between his metal fingers, long after she's gone.

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He's not saying that the truce goes well, because it doesn't, but the pretense of it does, because they keep up a good natured banter whenever someone else is around and barely says a word to each other when no one else is. They're convincing enough without being over the top and the others believe it.

But then apparently Bucky starts getting send out on missions, and it's fine – except that he gets paired up with her most of the time because of _how well they get along with each other_ , and he's not sure how he feels about it. With their combined skills, they manage to get the missions done easily. They don't need to say more words than necessary, and they go home without spending more time together than the hours needed. It's okay, he thinks. It's manageable.

Until—

Until he sees red, seeping through her fingers that are clutched to her abdomen, and he can't think—

He puts a bullet inside the man's head, and this is a result of a bad intel but that detail isn't relevant at all in his mind, and _oh god no_ —

He steps around the dead bodies between them and he drops to his knees in front of her, his hands are shaking— " _Natalia_ ," he rasps, he should check for an exit wound, he should stop the bleeding, he should, he should— "Nat—"

"James," she says, softly, and she touches the edge of his hair with her other hand, swaying on her feet. The touch is grounding, like she always _was_ , _is_ , past and present be damned. "It's okay. But you need to call backup now, yes?"

He does. Somehow by some miracle he manages to get her to safety, stop the bleeding, and give her first aid until help comes. But he can't—

 _God._

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It's exactly a week until she finds him again. She's glaring at him, her lips drawn into a thin line as she plants herself between him, his bedroom door, and Steve's living room. He doesn't even want to know how she managed to escape the Avengers tower in that state. If there's anything that he knows, is how overprotective the rest of the team are whenever one of them is injured. But then again, she is her and nothing can stop her. She is a force of nature, always has been.

"You're not supposed to be out of bed yet," he observes, lips dry. He doesn't remember that stubborn crease between her eyes, but he knows what it means. It means she has made up her mind, and she wouldn't give up until she gets what she's looking for. He wants the ground to swallow him whole.

" _Asshole_ ," she snaps, angrily. And he knows what she is going to say. "I thought you forgot. _I thought you don't remember_."

"Natalia," he says, reaching out for her hand hopelessly. But she slaps his hand away, pinning him under her gaze. He has been on the receiving end of that glare many times, yet this time it's different. This time the wounds are too raw, too fresh, and haven't yet been stitched over with needles and threads. He doesn't think there are enough needles and threads in the world for them.

" _No_ ," she bites out. "No _Natalia_ – how could you do that to me? _How could you_?"

"You never asked," he says, fully aware of the weak excuse. What was he supposed to say? _Because I don't trust myself with you. I already hurt you so many times. Because you deserve better, and you have better now. I have no place with you anymore. I don't deserve you. Not after everything I've done._

Her eyes flash. " _Fuck you_ ," she says, coldly. "You don't get to make that decision for me – you don't." Of course she can read between his lines, of course. "They told me you wouldn't—but I didn't give up on you, did I? Not until I saw you again and you—" _You shot me_. Her lower lip trembles and he aches, feels so goddamn _guilty_ and _tired_ , because it has been a long century and yet he is still here, hurting her all over again.

"I'm sorry," he breathes out— He reaches a hand out for her again, and she doesn't push him away. Her hair is a mess of curls and he presses a palm on the back of her neck. He edges closer and closer until he is breathing the words to her lips. _He loves her, he loves her, always has, always will_. "I'm sorry Natalia, I'm sorry. _God_ , _I'm so sorry_."

She bunches the front of his shirt with her hands and tugs him even closer, burying her face on his shoulder as if she can't get him close enough. Her shoulders are shaking but she's not crying. They've both had enough tears in their lifetimes. " _I hate you_ ," she whispers, half choked. "I hate you, James. I hate you."

"I know," he tells her, tucking his head to the crook of her neck, feeling her warmth and breathing in the smell of gunpowder and _he_ r. _He misses her, he misses her_. "I know. What can I do to make it up to you?"

" _Stay_ ," she says. "Don't ever— don't ever do that again. _Don't leave_."

"I won't," he promises breathlessly, kissing the exposed skin of her neck, the tip of her nose, her chin, her forehead, her lips— she closes her eyes and he kisses those too, her eyelids, tenderly— senses long deprived, a familiar welcoming. "I won't."

"Next time," she vows, shuddering, sounding just as wrecked. But there is the tiniest curve of the edge of her lips, a smirk, and he— "I'll break more than your stupid goggles."

"I wouldn't expect any less," he says, and he is smiling too—

"Good," she says. "As long as you know it."

She kisses him, and maybe sometimes those long centuries are worth it, just for moments like this.

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 **End.**

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 **Author's note:** I'm madhattersdagger on tumblr :) please drop by to say hi! I'm nice, I promise.

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